


sweet brother of mine

by constellation_composer



Series: songs from the north [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: denny gets lost in the woods and sweden gets worried, hes okay i promise, i just really love them a lot and i wanted to write more about them thats it, its just about them being brothers, mortals named sigurd keep dying :/, the ending is weird, they're little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 18:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18349097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/constellation_composer/pseuds/constellation_composer
Summary: “I thought Sigurd was dead,” Denmark commented cheerfully, skipping ahead of him.“That was the other Sigurd. This one is just sick.”-A trip through the woods with young Denmark and Sweden goes wrong.





	sweet brother of mine

**Author's Note:**

> i uhhhhh i love the viking brothers and i need them to be happy
> 
> whichthey'rereallynotinthisbutthatsfiiiiiiiine

Denmark was the most irritating, underfoot, clumsy child that Sweden had ever had the misfortune to come across. He liked to trail the older boy around, tugging on his sleeve and whining about something or another that Sweden honestly couldn't be bothered to give a rat's ass about, and to top it off, Denmark's voice was annoying, too. It made his head ache. He scowled, pulling his arm away from the little boy for what felt like the thousandth time that morning, storming away from him through the woods.

“ _Storebror_!” Denmark called after him, and he growled in irritation, diverting his course to the left, keeping the route back to the village in his head. It would do him no good to get lost with this nuisance clinging to him. “ _Storebror_ , I'm scared,” Denmark whined, little hands grasping for his arm and Sweden yanked it violently away, glaring down at him.

“I don't care,” he replied. “Go find someone else to bother. I'm going to the other village.”

Denmark's nose wrinkled. “Why?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. Sweden hated the other village. It was dirty and dark and the people weren't very nice. Denmark didn't really like it much either, but if Sweden was going then he might as well tag along.

Sweden heaved a sigh. “We need more medicine,” he explained as patiently as he could. “We’re running low, and Sigurd is in need of it.”

Denmark nodded solemnly, his mouth forming an “o” shape. Sweden rolled his eyes and turned away, continuing through the woods. “I thought Sigurd was dead,” Denmark commented cheerfully, skipping ahead of him.

“That was the other Sigurd. This one is just sick.” Denmark laughed loudly up ahead of him. Sweden growled, speeding his pace. “Slow down, Denmark.”

The boy stopped walking, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. “Hurry,” he whined. “You're so slow, _storebror_.”

Sweden huffed, stalking past him. “I'm not.”

“You are! You're always behind me! That's probably just because I'm better than you, though!” Sweden rolled his eyes to the sky. Not this again. “I'm gonna rule all of this someday,” Denmark continued, skipping ahead of him again. “I'm going to be the king of the entire world!”

“Keep dreaming, kid,” Sweden grumbled. “And I'm not always behind you, you're just always in the way.” Denmark shrugged.

Sweden squinted up at the sky. It was getting dark; they'd have to spend the night in the other village if they didn't hurry, and he was solidly against that idea. He sped up again, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Denmark was following him and hadn't gotten distracted by a worm or something. The little boy had, in fact, been closely inspecting a leaf on the ground, but at Sweden’s call, he jumped to his feet, tripping over his own feet as he ran to him. “Sorry, _storebror_ ,” the boy said cheerfully. “It was pretty.”

Sweden rolled his eyes. “I thought I had some time to go yet before your eye got turned by beauty,” he murmured, and Denmark looked confused. He chuckled to himself. “Don't think too hard about it, you'll hurt yourself.”

Denmark pouted for five whole minutes, which was a lot longer than he usually managed to do any one thing, and which also meant he wasn't talking. Sweden had no qualms for making the boy pout when he wanted things to be quieter. It was a tactic he employed as often as he could; he didn't like to yell, after all, and usually one of the two was all that managed to make Denmark shut his mouth. Food was also a winner. Denmark did love food.

“ _Storebror_ , my legs are tired.”

And there went the quiet. Sweden sighed, but refused to slow his pace. “Then you shouldn’t have come,” he grumbled. “Could’ve done without you.”

“That’s mean,” Denmark whined, grasping at his sleeve again. “Why are you so mean to me, _storebror_?”

“Why do you call me that?” Sweden asked, exasperated, stopping it his tracks and half-turning to give Denmark a look. The boy looked stunned, his blue eyes widening, his little fingers loosening on Sweden’s sleeve. He blinked once.

“Because you’re my big brother,” he replied, somewhere between matter of fact and sounding like a kicked puppy. Sweden sighed and easily removed Denmark’s hand from himself.

“No, I’m not.” He turned away again and kept going. Denmark trailed behind him again, but he stayed quiet. The pain behind Sweden’s temple began to dissipate. He glanced up at the sky; it was getting darker and darker. They had to hurry. A stick snapped, and Sweden flinched, growling softly under his breath as the sound rubbed on his already raw nerves.

Denmark made it back to his side and reached out, grabbing onto the hem of his shirt. “It’s scary here, _storebror_ ,” he said, his voice trembling, and that was the last straw. Sweden shoved him away, hard. Denmark stumbled, his clumsy feet slipping from underneath him, landing on the forest floor. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, scrambling backwards frantically as Sweden moved closer, face dark with irritation.

“For the last time, Denmark,” the taller boy hissed. “I am not your _storebror_. We are not brothers. I don’t care about you. All you do is follow me around and get on my nerves, and I’m sick and tired of it. If it weren’t for you and your whining, I could have gotten to the other village hours ago. Instead, it’s getting dark and I’m not there yet and I’ll probably have to stay overnight and you’re going to be there, which means I’ll have to take care of a whiny little kid that I don’t even _like_. Please, please, I already have to put up with you all the time, so can you just stop _talking_ for this once?”

It was probably the most words he had ever directed to Denmark at a single time. The little boy cringed away from him, his bottom lip trembling, and Sweden turned away before he could see the welling tears. Denmark was very good at making him feel guilty, but he wasn’t backing down this time. Sigurd needed medicine. It wasn’t fair for Denmark’s antics to prolong the process. He kept going, not looking over his shoulder to check for the kid this time. Denmark would find him.

Denmark always found him.

The sky was getting darker, and Sweden glared up at it like his irritation could pull the sun back into the sky. His hands were in loose fists as they swung at his sides. Clouds drifted over the sun. He shivered and prayed to the gods that it wouldn’t rain.

He stopped suddenly, looking left and right, right and left, left and right. He didn’t recognize this part of the forest. He must have turned wrong. “Denmark, do you remember where we came from?” he asked, turning around- but Denmark wasn’t there. He drew in a sharp breath. “Denmark?” he repeated, louder. There was no reply. He set back off the way he thought he’d come, calling the boy’s name. “Denmark, answer me!”

The first crack of thunder lashed across the sky, and he winced. Denmark was terrified of thunder. He was probably huddled up somewhere, crying his heart out and rocking back and forth and being generally pathetic. Sweden ignored the tug on his heart at the thought and kept calling the boy’s name. His own voice echoed back to him, but there was no answer, no shrieked “Sweden!” or even the half-strangled “ _storebror..._ ” he always heard when Denmark had a nightmare. He hated those nights. The brat would wake him up past midnight and cling to his side, curling up against his shoulder and refusing to sleep unless Sweden held him. It was awful. Just another of Denmark’s annoying habits.

There are wolves in these woods, Sweden knew, and he trekked faster as the raindrops began to fall around him. “Denmark!” he yelled again. “Where are you?” The rain lashed against his cheeks. There was another rumble of thunder. Sweden tried very hard not to think about Denmark’s little body shredded by sharp teeth and stranded on the forest floor, but he’d seen it too many times to utterly ignore the possibility, and his heart started beating faster. “Denmark!”

The woods are getting darker, and Sweden stumbled over a root. He cursed. “Hey, kid, are you there?” He’s getting closer to the spot where he snapped, and he sent a prayer up to the gods that Denmark was still there on the ground where he’d left him.

He wasn’t.

Panic rose up in Sweden’s chest, a sick feeling settling like a rock in his stomach. The rain was coming down harder and harder, a thick sheet around him, making it impossible to see. He stumbled blindly in some direction, trying to keep on course in the pouring rain. “Denmark!” he yelled again. Still no answer. He broke into a run, yelling the boy’s name, slipping in the mud as he squinted about him for some clue. “Answer me!” His voice rang through the woods.

He tripped over a vine on the ground and staggered forward, grasping a tree just in time to stop himself from tumbling over the edge of a ravine. He gasped in a breath, his heart beating wildly, and stared down at the dizzyingly high drop. It was sheer rock sloping sharply down on both sides, the bottom littered with fallen branches, dead leaves, and… and a little crumpled body, like somebody, someone small and lost and crying, had come stumbling through and their clumsy feet had carried them straight over the edge. Sweden’s heart rose into his throat.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, but the sound was lost in the wind. “Denmark!” he yelled. “Denmark, sit up, can you hear me, _sit up_!” The boy didn’t stir. “Oh gods,” Sweden mumbled, and he spent half a second contemplating before he was clambering down the side of the ravine, gripping the slick rock as well as he could. It would do no good for him to take a tumble. His feet slipped out from under him three times, but he just tightened his grip and searched for another foothold. Denmark needed him.

Finally, he got to the bottom, his fingers aching and his feet sore. He stumbled over to the crumpled boy’s side, taking him into his arms easily. Denmark was so small. He never seemed as little as he was, the way he jumped around and shouted at every opportunity, but in truth, Sweden could lift him and almost not know he was there. He turned in a circle, searching for a spot to hide from the downpour. There was a crevice in the rock to his left; it was just deep enough to fit them if he crammed himself inside and held Denmark to his chest. He shivered violently and buried his face in the boy’s hair, whispering prayer after prayer after prayer. His fingers grasped at Denmark’s wrist, pressing into the wet skin, and his heart seized to a stop until he felt the thrum of a heartbeat under his touch. He breathed out and pulled the boy closer.

“It’s alright, _lillebror_ ,” he murmured. “It’s going to be alright.”

He wiped the blood from Denmark’s temple and pressed a kiss to the wound; the rain fell. Sweden prayed.

**Author's Note:**

> denmark is fine he just hit his head and got knocked out
> 
> but he'll pull through

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wet sleeves and scraped knees](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18412934) by [Treblereble15](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treblereble15/pseuds/Treblereble15)




End file.
